


We'll Meet Trouble Halfway

by itsavolcano



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post Season 4, relationship recovery, season 5 speculation, spoilers through 4x22
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2018-11-02 05:15:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10937757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsavolcano/pseuds/itsavolcano
Summary: In the fallout and subsequent penance, Jemma only wants to keep Fitz safe, protected. Fitz, of course, feels the same and Jemma grows frustrated as he keeps her at an arm's length.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be one thing, and turned into a four-parter. I'm posting it at work, so will no doubt tweak it more later. 
> 
> Title from "The Upswing" by Bell x1 (I recommend it! <3);  
> Love to dilkirani for the beta and encouragement!

_Jemma_

“He’s my husband.” 

The lie spills from her lips so easily she wonders what other things might tumble out of her head if given more than a second to prepare. But they were going to take Fitz away—where, Jemma isn’t exactly sure, maybe another cinderblock cell down the corridor, maybe another catastrophic universe—and she isn’t about to let him out of her sight. 

They’ve been locked up in this cell for nearly fifteen hours with their hands zip-tied behind their backs. By the fourth hour, Jemma suspected they weren’t being held by the US Army, but by a much more suspicious organization. She hides a wince as the ties cut into her wrists. _Overzealous cowboys, perhaps?_

The guard, his beefy hand caught under Fitz’s elbow, pauses in mid-grip, leaving Fitz stuck at an uncomfortable angle. The guard casts a questioning look over his shoulder at the nameless, well-dressed agent standing near the thick metal door. This man arches a bushy eyebrow at her declaration—his eyes are so blue they’re practically translucent, a ghostly premonition she’s certain she’s seen before but cannot recall.

“We have no record of such a joyful event.” His words are sandpaper rough from too many cigarettes. Amusement curls at the corners of his lips.

“It’s rather recent.” Again, the lies come easily. She can feel Fitz’s wide eyes on her, searching for answers to questions he’s been afraid to ask since waking from the Framework. “Married over international waters, you know how it is. The heat of the moment, a government official on board—presto, wedded bliss.”

She barely recognizes this person spilling these falsehoods so calmly. After a commanding nod from Bushy Eyebrows, the guard drops Fitz back to the floor with a heavy thud.

“Is that true?” The man turns to Fitz and she watches from the corner of her eye as he works his jaw, searching for the words.

“Yes,” he licks his lips. “She’s my w—she’s my wife.” His voice snags on the word and her own heart catches.

“I don’t see any rings.”

“They were on the base, in a drawer in our bunk.” Fitz speaks so confidently Jemma knows it isn’t a lie. “Made them myself.”

A hot ache churns in her gut for this life they could have had but she pushes it aside. He’s here, next to her— _alive_. 

“And the ceremony was officiated by—?” The man pulls a pack of gum from his inside jacket pocket, rolling it through his long, spindly fingers.  

“Acting Director Coulson.” Jemma fights the urge to glance at Fitz, to silently check in as they often do, but she is too worried it would be misread by these officials and so she keeps her eyes trained ahead. She refuses to blink.  

“Coulson— _of course_.” The man shrugs a shoulder and the way he taps the gum against the flat of his palm reminds Jemma of the menacing villains in the spy flicks her dad would watch on Sunday mornings. A stick pops out of the forest of empty wrappers and he pulls at it with his teeth leaving her even more certain he’s a recovering smoker.

“Agents Fitz and Simmons—ah, I’m sorry, I misspoke. You’re no longer agents, are you? No, we've seen to that.” 

There's a taunting lilt in his voice. She hates it.

“Well, then,” Jemma offers him an icy smile, “we also answer to Drs. Fitz and Simmons. Those credentials are a little more difficult to revoke.”

The man chuckles— _actually chuckles_ and she resists rolling her eyes.

“Yes, well.” He glances over at Fitz and Jemma wants to lean up, wants to block his calculating gaze. “Marital status means nothing where you’re going.”

“It’s more a formality than anything at this point,” Jemma shrugs and again Fitz’s eyes are on her. 

They need to talk— _really_ talk—but she doesn’t trust the walls not to have undetectable eyes and ears. She wants to tell him he doesn’t need to flinch away from her, doesn’t need to curl his shoulders away from her when fatigue sets in and muscle memory tilts him in her direction. But their conversation will need to wait until their final destination. _ Hopefully it isn’t_too _final._

“Even still,” Bushy Eyebrows continues, “why should it matter if you’re kept together?”

Finally, he reaches the question Jemma has been hoping for.

“Well, you’ve no doubt read our file.” She times her pause perfectly and he hums an acknowledgement. “Then you know we’re much better together. Two heads are better than one, etcetera, etcetera.”

“Dr. Simmons,” a brief smile flickers over his features, “where you’re going, none of that matters—not your top marks at the Academy, not your merits, your past grant-funding, or your shared projects. It won’t be of use.”  

For the first time since he entered the room, a thread of panic threatens her resolve. What life exists for them on the other side of that wall? Doing her best to swallow down the bile rising at the back of her throat, she twists her grimace into a smirk.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” her tone is false sweetness. “I thought you said you’d seen our file.”

“Mmm, and I have.”

“In that case, you might want to review your reading comprehension skills.—You missed several entries. If you think our _shared projects_ are anything to go by, well, you should see the destruction we can generate when we’re kept apart.”

Bushy Eyebrows wavers—it’s miniscule, really. Just a stagger of a heel pressed to the cement, a snap of gum against his teeth—but Jemma Simmons has spent the better part of the last five years staring down men and beasts much more frightening. She’s seen the devil flinch and burn—this man with a penchant for a pressed suit and a recovering nicotine habit is more like the devil’s accountant.

His well-groomed nails belie a desk job but he holds himself with the precision of someone who has seen combat. He was probably counting down to his retirement and an engraved gold watch until forced to deal with a rogue team of government agents. A team that's allegedly set about catastrophic events by aiding corrupt Inhumans and breaking numerous bylaws of the Sokovia Accords. A team that must be held accountable, no matter the cost.

But Jemma couldn’t care less. This man is not removing Fitz from their cell. And just as importantly, she’s not giving Fitz the opportunity to retreat further away from her, physically or otherwise.

The man stares at her firmly, but she doesn’t waver. Jemma Simmons is stronger. She swam her way up from the bottom of the ocean, dug her nails into the blue ashy rock of an uncharted planet, clawed her way out of a mass grave in a virtual hellscape. Each and every time, she had one thought fueling her survival: Fitz. A battle of wills with a gum-chewing paper-pusher is, quite simply, child’s play.

A moment more and he blinks. When he speaks, his voice is dripping with the contempt of a man backed into a corner. He gestures for the beefy guard to exit.

“Well, then, Dr. Simmons, Dr. Fitz, I’m sure we can work something out,” Bushy Eyebrows turns to leave. Then, tossed over his shoulder, just before the clank of the heavy door, he adds, “Congratulations on your nuptials.”

In the sudden silence, Jemma finally exhales and Fitz shifts closer.

“What,” he whispers, his hot breath at her ear, “was that even about?”

“I haven’t the foggiest. But I know this much—” Her body thrums as it absorbs the raging adrenaline and she sags against Fitz’s side. For the first time in days, he doesn’t wince at the contact. “We have something they want.” 


	2. Chapter 2

_Jemma_

Jemma and Fitz don’t see the man with the eyebrows and gum fixation again. She doesn't give the strange encounter—or the man's absence—another thought until ten days later.

Unsurprisingly, getting shoved into a spaceship with her teammates and rocketed directly at a massive rotating station that makes the Death Star seem like a relaxing Italian villa takes up a considerable amount of her mental capacity. Daisy calls it a space prison, and given the high volume of security and the scratchy mass-produced garb in various gray tones, Jemma is inclined to agree.

One morning, as she sits at her barren workstation on Sub-Level 3 for the fifth consecutive hour and removes a wire from the RSM1310 panel only to add it to the SIJ4047 panel until a little glaring red light switches to a blinking blue, she realizes Bushy Eyebrows was correct.—Neither their class placement at the Academy, nor their extensive field knowledge is of any importance on the space station. Unlike their roles as SHIELD agents, their current positions are much more rote.

She is certain her brain is atrophying in her head, shrinking away from her skull until it’s the size of a pea that she can pass out her nose… If she could summon the will, she would roll her eyes at her own silly thoughts—she’s a scientist, she knows better than to think the brain can fall out her nose, and yet, these are the thoughts she finds rattling around in her head.

Stuck on this flying junker with a dozen other more highly regarded agents from a counterintelligence agency, the former SHIELD team’s only objective is to keep the space station in orbit. Their motivation, handily enough, is their own personal survival. If they rock the boat—or the station, as it is in this case—then it’s immediate death, be it by air lock or by mass destruction killing everyone on board. For a group that has saved the world from imploding on countless occasions, such an assignment is hardly challenging—no, it was far too boring to be even _slightly_ challenging.

What is more challenging than the rote daily assignment or even the scratchy mass produced garb—and definitely the crux of their punishment—is coping with their vigilant overlords who watch and hover over their every movement. It makes it difficult for the team members to ever speak to one another about even benign topics.

A blue light blinks and Jemma reaches for an RSM1310 wire. She repeats the motion until the lunch break alarm sounds and a guard drops a bowl of soup, a crusty roll, and a bottle of water at her elbow. They only eat breakfast and dinner in the commissary—lunches are served at their work station. Hardly sanitary, but since this isn’t a lab, Jemma doesn’t care. Instead, she focuses on her lunch, breaking apart the roll and soaking the bits in the broth. Typically, the bread is too hard and the first time she bit into it straight away it scrapped up the roof of her mouth. And so, she developed the soak method.

Jemma waits until the roll is a little soft before quickly spooning more broth over and around the bowl. She savors her lunch, takes a moment to relish what little control she now has on her daily life by eating the bits of roll in a counterclockwise fashion before tipping the rim of the bowl to her lips and gulping down the soup. Quickly, she drinks up the water before the guard returns to gather her tray—they aren’t permitted to keep liquids near active electronics and cold water is a luxury.

Moments later, while wiping her mouth, the guard returns and Jemma spins around just in time to see a red light flash. She reaches for the SIJ4047 panel and lets her mind drift for six more hours.

Making her way to the commissary for dinner—more soup and crusty bread—she sits with Daisy, but the two barely speak. They’re too afraid to show emotion under the watchful gaze of those around them, from the glaring guards there to keep them in line to the boisterous, conceited counterintelligence agents. But she can tell from her friend’s rounded shoulders the atmosphere of the space station is getting to her too.

Most of her teammates are equally displeased and bored, caught in work cycles that have little to do with their specializations and are meant to keep them busy to the point of exhaustion. They are, ostensibly, neutered. Daisy finds it particularly challenging, being unable to use her Inhuman powers or her vast computer skills in the maintenance facility. May, however, takes her punishment in stride, likening it to working in SHIELD’s administration department before joining the mobile unit. Even still, Jemma notices moments when May is frustrated, longing to dropkick a smart-mouthed guard five times her body weight.

The only person on the team who seems to welcome the monotony is Fitz, whose job it is to organize and maintain the various storage units. There is absolutely zero technology involved—it’s all documented with legal notepads and ballpoint pens. He seems to relish it, his glimmer of curiosity and scientific interest having been snuffled out. Jemma’s heart breaks a little more.

After they arrived at the base, he accepted his fate without comment or complaint and Jemma made a mental note to try to talk to him again. To once more broach the fact that they were all in this situation together, and despite the best efforts of those around them, they were a team. She wanted to tell him that she loved him no matter what he may think or believe.

She never gets the chance.

Their assignments are on opposite ends of the station and they keep staggered working hours, so Jemma never sees him during the day. But, because of her quick thinking in the containment cell when she declared their faux marital status, she manages to see Fitz each night in their shared bunk. Well, she sees him when he decides to show up. Mostly, he tries to wait until he thinks Jemma is asleep before sneaking in and keeping himself as far to the edge of their double bed as possible. She does her best to remain still until he settles down next to her, and only then when she knows he’s safe can she drift off.

Fitz, however, has a worse time of it. He hardly sleeps and has frequent nightmares. There are deep crescents shadowing his eyes. He’s dropped some weight due to both the dietary restrictions of being imprisoned on a space station as well as his guilt and trauma, leaving the already baggy clothes practically falling off his slight frame.

That night, when she hears Fitz enter their bunk, she stares hard against the orangey beam of the emergency light illuminating the otherwise dark bunk. Jemma keeps her breathing light, doing her best to appear asleep but wanting to drink in his presence. She has spent weeks missing him, from the moment of the LMD attack to the nightmare inside the Framework, and then as they did their best to escape AIDA’s destructive, murderous plan. And now, despite their reunion, despite currently being two feet apart, she feels like he is still back on Earth.

She wishes he would trust her—would trust himself. She knows his trauma is deep and layered, and she wishes the station offered some sort of therapy, but even then would the counselors be trustworthy? Or would they report back to their captors?

She wants him to feel comfortable and to open up to her without pushing, but while Jemma has tried her best to let him process on his own, she knows him well enough to understand if he’s alone with his thoughts too long, it will only cause more harm. Talking things through with her—from plans for his inventions to where to go for dinner—always helped him get to the necessary breakthroughs.

As he climbs in bed, Jemma holds still, careful to not spook him. She feels the thin mattress dip, shifting with his weight as he keeps his body as close to the edge as possible without falling off. Vaguely, she wonders why he doesn’t stretch out on the floor but she’s relieved he hasn’t.

Then, after a moment, she finds her voice.

“Fitz?”

He pretends to sleep but she hears his breath hitch in the quietness of the room.

“I know you’re awake.” She wants to cajole him but she’s too sad and too lonely—she _misses_ him—and the jokes won’t come.

He cranes his neck around, barely rolls a shoulder to look at her.

“Hmm?”

“We need to talk.”

“ _Now_?”

She wonders how such a simple word met with such whispered inflection can send her back into a memory of a time long ago when they were friends on the cusp of something more, a time when they were last met with a chasm she wasn’t sure they could cross until reaching out to catch his hand as he stormed past her.

Shifting closer, she pretends she doesn’t notice how straight he’s holding his spine. Then reaching up, she slithers a hand under his arm before locking their hands together. It’s his bad hand and it’s trembling. She runs her thumb over his skin in figure eights and in the dim light, he watches her. He begins to relax, either from exhaustion or confusion, and tips onto his back. He has yet to look away from her and she marvels at the small victory.

Then, just as carefully, just as gently, she lifts his arm up and drops it around her shoulder before pressing her cheek to his chest.

“Not right now.” She burrows closer, wraps her arm around his waist, and holds him. Then, brushing a soft kiss to the underside of his jaw, she adds, “Sleep first, Fitz.”

After a moment, the tension in his body unwinds and his breathing evens out. Soon, the staccato of his heartbeat under her ear lulls her to sleep.

In the early morning, when she wakes, he is curled around her, his face pressed against her shoulder. The purple bruises under his eyes are beginning to recede.

xXx

In Sub-Level 12 of Space Station 57 a man in a well-tailored suit pulls a packet of gum from his breast pocket and taps it against the flat of his palm. Tugging a piece from the wrapper with his teeth and chewing, he welcomes the sugary sweet cinnamon burn as it claws up through his senses.

Then, thumbing through various paper notes and folders, his eyes scan over unofficial performance reviews regarding the sleeper cell he brought on board. A sleeper cell so deeply embedded they have no idea of their true purpose. He digs a nail into the grooves of each of the seven names. He gives it another two weeks before one of them snaps and starts poking a nose where it doesn’t belong. His money is on the married scientists. Or the hacker-slash-walking-earthquake. Or maybe that duo with the combined decades of intelligence experience. In truth, he is a little surprised the team took their work placements without much resistance. 

It doesn’t matter—they all break eventually. He’s read their files, after all. He knows what drives each and every one of the former SHIELD agents. It was why he’d given in so easily when the doctor reminded him of the destruction she and her partner were capable of—he wanted to create chaos onboard the station, he didn’t want the entire lot of it thrust into a black hole because of two star-crossed lovers. That would surely delay his long-term plans for domination. 

“Another two weeks, max,” he says to no one, snapping his gum against his teeth. “Although, as with everything, the sooner they give into their natural curiosity, the better.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the lovely dilkirani for the beta and cheerleading!! MWAH.

_ Fitz _

For reasons Fitz doesn’t quite understand, the restrictions within the space station relax and the former SHIELD team is allowed to move a little more freely throughout the corridors. Sure, while they remain regulated to Sub-Level 3 and the beefy guards watch them with thinly veiled disdain, they  _ are  _ permitted to walk down the halls without armed escorts. 

_ Small pleasures, and all that _ , he thinks, resignedly. 

Although he is skeptical of the reasons for the newly relaxed surveillance, Fitz welcomes the chance to sit next to Jemma without worrying about the gulf of silence in their shared bunk. He knows she’s barely holding herself together, has been for weeks—no,  _ months _ —but he’s unsure how best to begin.

Since escaping the Framework, he measures and analyzes his every movement, every action and word. He longs for the careless ease of taking her into his arms, or even just  _ knowing _ his touch is welcome. Now, he no longer trusts his hands. When he looks at them, he sees all the violence they created and enacted. ...How can she possibly want him to reach for her? What right does he have to even ask? But, despite all that, he wants to try.

When Jemma had pulled him into her arms two nights ago with the promise of a conversation, he’d felt the first tendril of hope since waking from his nightmare. But while she willingly sleeps next to him, holds him—protects him with the false pretense of marriage—he doesn’t trust himself to let down his walls. He wishes he were stronger. 

Despite his unease, he finds he is drawn to her—even when he knows he should stay away with as much distance between them as possible. Sometimes, it’s accidental; he turns a corner and she’s there. Other times, he seeks her out in the shared areas, the commissary, their bunk… He understands he no longer has the right to reach for her, but how do you train the Earth to break its orbit around the sun?

_ I love you.  _

The words bubble up in his traitorous brain, unbidden and white-hot. So many times in recent weeks, he tries to speak the words that once came freely, but now they catch in his throat, hover behind his gritted teeth. His jaw aches from holding back the words he wants to speak.

Currently, he is stuck at the entry of the commissary, dinner tray in hand and eyes locked on Jemma. She is sitting across from Daisy at a bolted down table, spooning the unappetizing soup in front of her. While Fitz is rooted to the floor, a sense of deja vu rushes through his brain, taking him back to the times at the Academy when he wanted so much to say something to impress the smartest, prettiest girl in the class. 

A barking command from the guard standing nearby brings him back to the present and soon he is moving to her. Without a word, he slides into the empty seat next to Jemma and her posture straightens but she doesn’t look up. 

Daisy glances between them, her expression briefly flickering with concern and questions before breaking the silence, sharing the suspicions she and Coulson have—that perhaps something far more insidious is taking place onboard. 

Fitz welcomes the distraction, however absurd it may be.

“OK, right,” Daisy speaks so low her words practically hiss. The ends of her hair nearly fall into her soup as she leans over. “ _ Why _ are we supposed to keep the space station in orbit? What’s the actual point other than if we  _ don’t _ we literally  _ die _ ? There has to be a reason, right? Coulson thinks something’s up. Wants to investigate some unmarked level he found. Thinks this is the Death Star, which of course he does. Also thinks he’s Han Solo.” 

Next to him, Jemma only shrugs a shoulder. She still hasn’t looked up from her soup and worry swirls low in his stomach. He is struck by how much he wants to see her smile, to see a flicker of life in her eye. Mostly, he is struck by the knowledge that he wants to be the one to put it there.

Before he can think of anything to do or say, Jemma licks her lips and speaks, “Often times, when backed into a corner such as we are, people see what they want to see. We’ve spent years seeking the truth and preventing absolute destruction—perhaps we’re hoping this is another one of those times when corruption lurks under the surface.” She blinks wearily, focusing on the smooth metal table. “But it might be best if we accept that this is a different situation. A situation we can’t come back from.” 

Her tone is so broken and weary; Fitz feels his stomach bottom out completely, taking with it what little appetite he had. 

“That sounds like defeat,” Daisy straightens, eyes wide in disbelief.

“I prefer ‘pragmatic.’” Jemma continues to drag the edge of her spoon through her soup. “Not every problem can be solved. It takes… it takes the effort of all parties involved.” 

Fitz senses they are no longer talking about their current state of captivity. What had happened in the two days since she curled next to him and said they needed to talk? At the time, she had offered him an out—and said their conversation could wait until he was better rested. So what exactly had happened? A cold sweat broke down his back as he realizes… she had extended an olive branch of sorts and he hadn’t followed through once morning came. All this time, she had been making little steps forward, little steps to meet him where he stood and, still too worried, he had done nothing. 

A weighty silence descends over their table and he itches to take her hand in his, to smooth his thumb over her knuckles. So he does. He doesn’t know why he does it, other than he  _ wants to— _ it seems so small and insignificant, in the larger scheme of all they’ve been through, of all he has a right to. It’s been weeks— _ months _ —since he allowed himself to truly given into any urge… 

To his relief, she holds her hand still and he chances a sideways glance at her. She is focused on her soup and if Daisy notices anything abnormal, she keeps it to herself.

Then, before Fitz can react, Jemma stands, gathers her tray and leaves. Daisy sends him a confused look, no doubt baffled by the uncharacteristic outburst, but Fitz is propelled into action. Dimly, he hears Daisy mutter a string of expletives as he too gathers his tray and leaves, following Jemma. 

* * *

She’s sitting on the edge of their mattress, palms pressed against her thighs and eyes closed, when Fitz enters their shared bunk. He watches with rapt interest as she inhales through her nose and exhales out of her mouth in a rhythmic repetition Andrew had taught her the  _ last  _ time their world had been tossed upside down. He knows because Andrew had tried to teach him the same calming method, but it didn’t exactly take. He much preferred shooting up the locks on glass cases holding destructive monoliths. And then, as quickly as the memory enters his mind, Fitz is struck by the realization that maybe—maybe his reactions have always had a thread of violence in them. That man he was in the Framework has always been a part of him, dormant. More nature than nurture. He shakes his head, hoping to chase away the horrible memories of that virtual, shadow life.

He decides to try it Jemma’s way and focuses on his breathing, inhaling for four seconds, exhaling for six seconds. Inhale—

After one more breathing rotation, Jemma finally looks over at him. His posture is taut, feet pointing in her direction while his body is twisted away. He knows he looks like he’s ready to run, caught in some sort of fight or flight panic. And he does want to run—either to her, or from her, or both. He can’t quite make up his mind. He wants to let his confessions spill out  _ and  _ keep his mouth shut. It has been years since he’s felt this torn up inside and he doesn’t know what to do, or how to take the first step. As if she can read his mind, Jemma takes the first step for them. She was always the stronger one… But he isn’t prepared for the words she says, or the pain that creases the lines around her eyes.

“I killed you,” she says without preamble and has to look away from him. He swallows, giving her space to continue. “Not you specifically, but… a machine with your face, your eyes looking back at me, pleading… Shoved a knife into its neck and just… pulled. I could see the wires and metal, but it was your face. It knew how to hold me, how to run its thumbs along the underside of my wrists when I’m upset…” 

Bile churns in his stomach and he feels like throwing up. When she reaches for him, he arches back. He can’t bear it, after this revelation. 

“I don’t understand how you can stand to look at me, to share a bed with me. You deserve a better man, but I can’t… I can’t leave you. How pathetic is that? You left the commissary and I immediately followed.” Anger thunders across his face. “I’m weak, Jemma. I try and I try to give you space, but then every morning—”

He tosses a glare at the two lumpy pillows at the top of their bed and remembers starting the day curled against her, waking from sleep with his cheek pressed against her shoulder.

“Every morning you give me hope, Fitz.” She stands and closes as much of the gap between them as he’ll allow. “I  _ wanted  _ you to follow me. I know we have a lot to discuss, and we both need time to heal, but we always did work better together than apart.” 

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you want to work with me, to  _ heal  _ with me…” His leg bounces and he screws his thumb into his left palm. “Why aren’t you sending me as far away as this hunk of junk allows?”

“Because you’re my best friend in the world,” she states, evenly and with purpose. Now, unlike that time at the bottom of the ocean, there is no panic flooding her words—only a steady resolve. When he manages to look back at her, she continues, “you’re also more than that, Fitz. No amount of corrupted code or manipulation could ever change the fact that  _ I love you _ .” 

He closes his eyes and exhales. He wants to say it back, but he remembers the last time she said those words—and how his avatar had… 

“Unless…” she licks her lips, curls her fingers into her sleeves, “unless you don’t feel the same—”

The words barely out of her mouth, he interrupts, incredulity creasing his brow. 

“What? No. Jemma.” 

With caution, he reaches for her, taking her face in his hands, caressing the angles of her cheeks with his thumbs before remembering what she said about his LMD—

He flinches, tries to drop his hands away, but she holds him in place and this time it is  _ her  _ fingers running soothing circles over his wrists. Then, she curls into him. 

He forgot that the crown of her head fits perfectly in his palm. 

“Jemma?” He whispers, holding his breath until she tips her head back to look at him. There is a gleam in her eye that he’s missed in the last few weeks. “I need to tell you something, I need to say it out loud and just…”

The gleam in her eye dims with apprehension. “You can tell me anything, Fitz. I’ll always be here, no matter what.” 

His heart swells at her words.  _ There she is _ , he thinks,  _ always so strong.  _ He can’t bite back his half grin—doesn’t want to. He rubs his thumb over the plumpness of her lower lip. 

“I love you, Jemma.” 

Something inside his chest breaks and melts away when she smiles and tucks her head back against his shoulder.

* * *

“Do you have the thing?” Coulson hisses in Daisy’s ear. She had lifted a hand-held scanner in the hopes of breaking into Sub-Level 12, but her decades of hacking experience were proving to be useless with this device. For all the archaic tech on this hunk of metal, the security is freakishly advanced.

“Explain to me again why I can’t just you know,” she holds up her hand, miming her quaking abilities, “the door?”

Coulson only rolls his eyes. 

“Because we’re trying to be discrete and I’m pretty sure you’re the only walking seismic shifter on this space station.” 

“Fine, but it would save a hell of a lot of time.” 

“It might also suck us out into a blackhole of death.” 

“OK, well, when you put it that way—”

“Yes, I, too, would much prefer you not use your powers on board, Ms. Johnson,” a gravelly voice echoes from behind. Daisy and Coulson turn, eyes landing on the man with the bushy eyebrows and chewing gum habit. He moves closer, reaching around them to swipe his keycard. “Here, let me open that for you, shall I?”

“What the hell?” Daisy stammers as the lock is deactivated. 

“Oh, it’s nothing,” the man continues, “I’ve been waiting for you to Scooby your way down here for weeks. That’s still a thing on Earth, right? Scooby Doo? Are you too young for that?”

“I got the reference,” Coulson offers, still watching the man with guarded skepticism. “So let me get this straight—you wanted us to snoop around here?” 

“Hmm, correct.” 

“So this entire thing—our capture, catapulting us out into space, onto this station—was all a set up?”

“Basically, yes.” 

“What,” Daisy repeats, dazed, “in the  _ hell?” _


	4. Chapter 4

_ Fitz _

He watches her carefully, finally allowing himself to study her with abandon. Outside of the times he’s watched her from afar, or from the corner of his eye, it has been months since he’s allowed himself to look at Jemma. It has only been moments since he gave voice to his love for her, reaffirming her place in his heart. Then, as if the moment were too much, she had stepped away from him—not in an effort to retreat, no. They are no longer running. Instead, it is as if the weight of the moment is too overwhelming in the best possible way. He feels the same. Their bond is so strong they need to take a measured step back to regain their mutual bearings.

Now, as she stands mere feet from him, he can practically see the shadows under her eyes evaporate. She exhales and a smile breaks over her features, so wide it reaches her eyes, casting them a shimmering honey gold. The love radiating from her steals his breath away.

He is a parched man in a desert and she is a drink of cool water. He feels revived. He wants more. The revelation runs through him. A long held fever breaking. — _ He wants. _ And, for the first time in months, he is struck by the knowledge that this shared love between them has always been a safe harbor, that she will never ask him for anything he is unwilling to give, that he will never willingly cause her harm.

“Can I kiss you?” The words are out of his mouth before he can fully realize them. Jemma’s eyes widen, a soft pink dancing over her cheeks. It’s been ages since he’s said something to make her blush, and he can’t help but relish it. So often, the tables are turned—much, he knows, to her own playful satisfaction.

Her wide watery eyes remain locked on him and she only nods.

“Say it, Jemma. Please.” The crack in his voice surprises them both. “I need to hear you say it.”

“Yes. Yes, Fitz. You may kiss me.” Again, a corner of her mouth pulls up in a smile. “In fact, I would love for nothing more.”

He didn’t realize how much he _wanted_ to hear her say those words until she did.

But just the same, he remains careful as he closes the gap between them, reaching for her as she willingly steps into his embrace. Once again, the emotion charging between them nearly overwhelms but he doesn’t look away, now that he has permission, now that he has stated his intention. Jemma watches him back, her face open and loving, and he wonders if they’ve ever shared a more intimate connection than in this moment. It’s as if they’re sharing vows, recommitting themselves to their love, all without uttering a word or removing a piece of clothing.

It is filling them up, their love, until it spills over. He tips his head down, nuzzling against the slope of her forehead, against her nose. He doesn’t want to rush it, this first kiss of their renewed relationship. He’s made that mistake before, so worried he would never have another chance. In that moment, she had set them right, following closely behind when he’d tried to retreat, softening the kiss. In that moment, so long ago, their first kiss had felt more like a goodbye. But now, he wants to take his time.

He has so many traitorous memories of a life that was never meant to be his still running rogue, flashing into his mind’s eye unbidden, that he wants to overwrite them with new, better memories. She seems to understand and doesn’t rush him. Instead she closes her eyes and leans into his caress.  

He starts out slowly—a delicious, aching pace. He brushes his lips to her forehead, her brow, over each closed eyelid, and is rewarded by Jemma’s soft, content hum. He kisses down the slope of her nose, the high plains of her cheeks, the corners of her mouth—stopping short of her lips. She shifts, chasing his movements, but he continues on. He wants to kiss her like she should be kissed. Not with a desperate rush, not with a sudden press of lips.

Instead, he drags his mouth along her jaw, the tip of his tongue sneaking out for just a second, ghosting over her thundering pulse. Her soft hum turns into a darker, enticing tone. She leans against him more fully and he knows she can feel how hard he’s become. He also knows he has no intention of doing anything about it. Not tonight, not yet.

Soon, his hands are in her hair and he’s tipping her head back, exposing more of her throat. He runs his fingers in soothing circles along the base of her neck and nips at her collarbone.

“Fitz,” she wraps an arm around his shoulders, holding him in place while dragging her fingers against his scalp in figure eights. Panting, he can only press his face to her shoulder. “I thought you were going to kiss me.”

He can hear the laughter coloring her voice.

Leaning back, he studies her—her skin is flush from his mouth and the scratch of his beard, her dark eyes are blown wide with lust.  

“Well, I am a man of my word.” He rubs his thumb along her full lower lip, presses a sweet kiss to the corner of her mouth, urging her to meet him halfway. He glides his lips over hers, angling her lips apart, losing himself in the sensation of her tongue sliding sweetly against his. Before he can fully realize it, she takes charge, and with his head held gently in her hands, deepens the kiss. He moans, unable to hold back, and wraps a free arm around her waist before backing her to the nearest wall—next to the door, as it happens. Her leg is around his body, pulling him even closer, and he vaguely thinks he should break away, that they should slow down, but he can’t seem to find the will to care… She moves her mouth down his chin, kissing him blindly but before he can chase after her, the grating sound of an alarm goes off.

“Do you hear that?” She pants next to his ear but he’s too busy leaving a mark on her throat to answer. It isn’t until the emergency lights in their bunk switch on, casting the room in an eerie orange glow, that he finally lifts his head, blinking at the changed surroundings. She slides both feet back to the floor, but they don’t let go of each other.

They grow quiet, their breathing evening out as they focus on the chaos that has erupted in the hallway outside.

A sharp banging on their door startles them, cutting through the silence. Jemma tightens her grip on his arm, but Fitz barely notices. Together, they pause, wondering if they should just remain silent— But again, someone bangs on the door and they lock eyes.

“C’mon, I know you two are in there, open up.” It’s Daisy. Jemma sags against him for a second before wrenching open the door. Their friend quirks an eyebrow at their disheveled state before returning to her all-business tone. “We have exactly nine minutes before this station will self-destruct so… _we need to_ _move._ ”

Jemma and Fitz slip into action mode, following Daisy down the corridor as she quakes anyone attempting to stop them. He feels a mixture of satisfaction and relief as he watches their friend send their captors crashing into walls.

Soon, they round a corridor, entering Sub-Level 12—a level Fitz didn’t even know existed—and run right into the man with the bushy eyebrows and the chewing gum addiction. Fitz is startled to see Daisy drop her hands to her sides and places himself in front of Jemma as a precaution.

“Ah, Drs. Fitz-Simmons. I’m afraid we’ll need to cut your honeymoon short.” The world is falling apart around him and still he manages to find a scathing quip—to say the man irks Fitz is an understatement.   

“Do you have any of those customer service cards? We’d like to leave a review,” Jemma seethes from behind him.

“There’s a 1-800 number you can call.”

“We have five minutes before this junk heap explodes, so can we please save this for later?” Coulson shouts. Fitz turns, finally taking in the scene before them.

Their entire team is hunched over a smoldering command center that, when functional, would rival Zephyr One.

“Right, what do you need?”

“Need?” Jemma pipes up, following behind. His eyes lock on a faulty wiring issue. “What is even going on?”

“Oh, right, well, turns out Pete, here,” Daisy hooks a finger at Bushy Eyebrows. He doesn’t look like a ‘Pete.’ “Pete kidnapped us all in order to hijack the space station, but when we were slow to mobilize he started messing with things—leaving breadcrumbs, if you will, in the hopes that we’d get curious and take initiative.”

“Ah, yes, makes sense,” Jemma nods as Fitz scans the coaxial input jutting out of the monitor.

“Really?”

“No,” they answer in unison.

“Pete’s an undercover agent with SWORD. It’s like SHIELD but in space, from what I gather,” Daisy quickly summarizes.

“That’s incredibly simplistic,” Pete scowls but Daisy only rolls her eyes.

“It must be if you had to kidnap an entire team from Earth.” She turns back to the team. “Yo-Yo and I managed to take out the baddies—quite the easy feat once you can use your powers, I gotta say. But… well… I quaked one of the security guards into the circuit panel and it activated the failsafe, so now we’re all hurtling to our collective doom unless we somehow manage to stop it.”

“You didn’t think to come find us sooner—perhaps before you _started_ _quaking_? This is highly evolved technology!” Jemma shrieks.

“Hey, look, we tried to reach you but you weren’t answering. And from what I saw when I got to your bunk, looks like you had your own quaking going on.”

Jemma only manages to scoffs inelegantly at the implication while Fitz pauses to shoot Daisy a glare.

“Three minutes,” May shouts.

“What if we all just head for the trash compactor?” Coulson offers.

“No need, I can fix this,” Fitz’s eyes narrow over the circuits and he sees the answers before his eyes.

“How, Fitz? It’ll take ages to repair and we don’t have that kind of time.” Jemma’s soft voice is filled with worry and he reaches out to give her hand a squeeze.

“We have all the time we need.” Then gesturing for Yo-Yo to follow, he quickly walks her through the steps he needs her to take to repair the busted board.

As she sets to work, Fitz turns to Pete. He feels a strange calmness settle over him as he sizes the man up and down. Seconds later, Yo-Yo’s repairs are complete but the alarm is still sounding, the entire base still tinted orange.

“What’s going on?” Pete looks around. Even Fitz’s remaining team members seem uneasy. He doesn’t blame them—the clock is counting down the final minute before the station explodes.

With hands clasped behind his back Fitz steps toward the man who had held them captive—and for what purpose? A glorified car-jacking? Ridiculous. They’ve all dealt with bigger conflicts over the years. This situation is nothing, comparatively. But, even still, Fitz isn’t taking any risks.

“Do you see what Elena has in her hand?” Fitz begins and Yo-Yo holds up a small dial. “Once she plugs that into the board, all will be right again. The siren will stop, the lights will come up, and we won’t hurtle to an explosive death.”

The man’s eyes narrow. Over his head the clock counts down the remaining seconds. 25… 24… 23…

“What are you getting at?”

“Swear you’ll return us to Earth immediately, and Elena finishes the steps.”

“And if I don’t, you blow up the entire space station with your friends still on board? Your wife? How intriguing,  _ Doctor _ .” Pete’s inflection is purposeful and Fitz doesn’t bother to wonder how he knows about that other man, he’s too busy struggling to keep his expression neutral. Behind him, he hears Jemma’s sharp intake of breath but he pushes on.

“No, of course not. No matter your decision, Elena replaces the dial. But, well, you saw how fast she moves. And now that she knows this level exists... One day, weeks from now, she might race back here and pull that piece right out... Quite messy, I’d imagine.”

“But you’d all still explode right along with the station.”

8… 7… 6…  

“Really? After all this time, you still haven’t read our files very closely? We’ve escaped tighter spots than this.—Weren’t there photos of our last base? A smoldering pile of rubble and yet here we all are.” Fitz sees the man flinch. A sense of victory floods through him as the man agrees with a resigned flick of his wrist.

Fitz gives Yo-Yo the go-ahead with seconds to spare and the siren stops. Pete slinks off but not before agreeing to set them on a course for home. May follows close behind to keep him honest in her own special way. 

“You brave, stupid man,” Jemma whispers after diving into his arms. Their team members nearly collapse with relief.

“Hardly,” he nuzzles closer. “That dial is just a dummy. Yo-Yo reconnected the failsafe well before the one minute mark.”

“You were bluffing?” Jemma gasps, mouth dropping in awe. His only response is to tip a shoulder.

“If it’ll get us home, yeah.” He smiles.

“Fitz?” She leans back to look at him more fully as the rubble around them is cleared. “Can I kiss you?”

“I’d like nothing more.”

And so she did. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure: When I started this, it was meant to be a smutty one-shot and it became neither of those things. Instead, it accidentally fell into a bit of a weird plot I had no intention of writing and I wondered--what if FitzSimmons are too distracted to participate in the height of the shenanigans? 
> 
> Thank you to dilkirani for the beta and support as I struggled through the corner I'd written myself into.


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